A New Flame
by Edes
Summary: Maybe Will can leave his past behind and start over with "the painter" in Wisconsin. Maybe he can finally move on and find true happiness and simplicity. Then again, maybe not. [Epilogue Up: COMPLETE! :)]
1. Default Chapter

Title: **A New Flame**

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

Note: Did Will ever go meet that painter? How's life treating him in Wisconsin?

Feedback welcome and appreciated!!!

**Part One: At the door**

_Leah_

The knock on the door wasn't unusual. Leah's best friend, Mari, wrote tour guides upstairs in 20C and often dropped by. It was a sunny afternoon, one of the last truly hot days of the summer. Fall comes early to Wisconsin—Mari no doubt wanted to force Leah to enjoy it properly. Drag her sailing, or something.

Leah rolled her eyes; hadn't she fried on Mari's boat enough this summer? Any more freckles and her face was going to look like a sepia Jackson Pollack.

"'M cmin'!" Leah said around the gritty handle of a camelhair paint brush. "'E white air."

Brush balanced on the top of her water jug, Leah swiped her hands on her cargos and pushed her wavy brown hair behind her ears. A swipe of cobalt blue remained on both, accenting the odd palate that Leah ended up wearing every time she painted furiously like this.

Leah's preemptive retort was fully formed before the door had opened halfway.

"I'm not burning on your boat again, so don't even ask."

A splash of crimson joined the flecks of blue on her face as she blushed. A man stood there, relaxed and grinning. Leah fervently wished she had half the poise she did in her imagination; this wasn't exactly how she'd pictured meeting the only young, single guy in her building. Leah scanned her memory: Jonah from 5F.

"Hey," he teased. "I didn't know we had a problem with pyros and yachts around here. But thanks for the warning."

"Oh," Leah smiled breathily, still recovering. "I thought you were my friend, Mari. But you're not." _Brilliant comeback._ Leah grimaced inwardly.

"The writer, from upstairs? Not last I checked. I'm the construction manager from downstairs. And I'm the guy who forgot to get my tool kit back from the neighbor who used it and then went on vacation. I was wondering if I could borrow a hammer for a minute or two." He held out a hand. "I'm also Jonah Apton."

Leah blinked as she remembered she wasn't supposed to know his name. They hadn't technically ever met, but didn't everyone snoop—just a little!—around the mailboxes?

Leah also noticed that his eyes were ridiculously blue. Regaining her composure, she shook his hand in mock formality.

Her mouth quirked. "A construction manager without a hammer? That's bad, dude. I'm Leah, the painter who always has plenty of paint." She gestured at her multicolored clothing and laughed. She knew she should get back to painting but said anyway, "Come on in. I've just go to cover my palate so it doesn't dry out."

"'Dude?'" Jonah said, stepping into her apartment. "Are we in like the third grade?"

"What name would you prefer, dude?" Leah countered. She held back the rest of her retort as Jonah stopped to whistle, looking around.

"Wow." Jonah absorbed the array of canvases that filled the room. "Are these all yours?" Paintings leaned against every surface. Some of them were stacked four deep. Others hung on the wall.

Leah surveyed them briefly. "Yeah, mostly."

She shrugged, then smiled at his approving expression. She liked getting praise more than she cared to admit. Her art wasn't for everyone, but she tended to like people who admired it. Was it just vanity? Or was it because those people saw the world like she did? She didn't know.

Jonah bent down to examine one of the brightly colored abstracts. "I don't know much about art, but I love all the colors and the feeling of movement."

He straightened, and she saw that his smile was sincere. She grinned back, her eyes crinkling at the edges, and laughed off the compliment.

"It's ten compliments per half-hour use of the hammer, y'know."

"I'd better get started, then." Jonah held up his hands, framing the air in front of him, and adopted a terrible French accent. "Dis one, eet iz vehwee, 'ow you say? Pairfect? Zuch forms. And dis one, well…"

Leah saw his eyes rest on a set above her bed, and she cut him off. "Actually, those ones on the wall were done by a friend." A new note entered her voice. Jonah looked quickly but discreetly at her.

Awkwardly, Leah added, "I'll, um, get the hammer."

Turning away, she felt another blush rise, but she fought it with a silent reprimand. She should have taken those down long ago. _Not that I shouldn't have moved on by now, anyway, paintings or no paintings._

But the truth was that the paintings over her bed still offered her fresh pain her every time she looked at them, with their beautiful, dream-world colors. She remembered the days that Bradley had painted them—uncomplicated days of streaming sunshine and the first flush of a giddy attraction. Days had passed that summer when they didn't leave her room—or get dressed. _Over a year ago, damn it._

They had spent that summer lolling about, doing little. Her usually frenetic painting slowed to a trickle; her daily goals centered on making his gray eyes light up like they did when she teased him. Or when she pushed him away from the easel to run her hands over his bare chest…

_God, Leah. Get a grip. You've been dying to meet Jonah for months. What good was all the therapy if you don't know by now that it wasn't your fault? Bradley killed _himself.

It was the oldest story in the book: the melancholy artist. He was depressed. He didn't take his meds. _Non-compliance_, the doctors had called his behavior. Refusal to follow simple medical instructions. Like that's all it was—a small lapse in judgment. __

Bradley's paintings told a story of an unrealizable future. They were complete, wholly formed and beautiful. They concealed the cracks in his psyche that she couldn't patch with love, with sex, or with drugs—although, in the end, they had tried all three. His paintings breathed potential and invoked a ceaseless desire to fulfill it. They promised a life exactly opposite of the one he chose. Bradley's paintings were the perfect lie.

Leah picked up the hammer and turned back to the living room.

_Will _

_OK, this is going well,_ Will Tippin thought with rueful sarcasm as the petite figure retreated into the other room. He watched as she walked away stiffly. Her long brown hair swished like the tail of an irritated cat.

Will ran a hand over his face in a gesture that belied his earlier joking tone. He was still bruised from his encounters with Sydney and Allison three weeks ago. Neither his body nor his mind seemed to heal very quickly nowadays. _You're getting old. Nice_.

_What am I doing here? _Leah was obviously busy—and what was with her and those paintings?

Will's journalist's mind supplied the answer, unbidden. _There's something that still hurts in her past so much that she can't hide it_. He pushed the stab of sympathy away. Six months of Witness Protection preparation and two years of joking with his crew, of reading nothing more challenging than the newspaper, of plugging in his car at night during the Wisconsin winter all reminded him that he, Jonah Apton from 5F, was a simple guy, now.

_This isn't going to work._ He couldn't deny the brief chemistry he and Leah had shared, but he had demons enough for both of them, didn't he?

Will might have just completed a dangerous mission for the CIA, had consoling sex with his partner on that mission, Sydney Bristow, who happened to be one of his oldest friends, and—lest we forget—desperately in love with someone else. Will might have just engaged in a fight to the death with an international terrorist, Allison Doren, who happened to be his ex-girlfriend, and—let's remember—a genetic clone.

Will might have done all these things. But Jonah was finished with troubled, secretive women.

Yet words spoken to Sydney were almost like promises. Will swallowed slowly as he remembered the contented face he'd turned toward her as they said goodbye in LA after the debrief at headquarters. His alias might be compromised. He might be in imminent danger. Syd had advised him to moved, maybe internationally. Nonetheless, he was done running.

"No, I'll stay in Wisconsin."

He'd shot Syd a tentative smile, a hope forming in his chest. Hope that he could finally, really start over. Forget the crashing emptiness that killing Allison forged in his mind. Forget Sydney reaching for him in his dreams. Forget the sweetness of her hair on his chest.

"Maybe when I get back, I'll ask out that painter."

If Syd could slog through the mess that was her life now, the least Will—no, the least _Jonah_ could do was hang in there long enough to ask an attractive woman on a date.

He was glad Leah didn't look anything like Syd, though. Leah's small frame was more cute than sexy, her wavy hair adorably mussed. Her eyes were large and dark blue-green, dominating a face with otherwise understated features. Understated, that is, until she smiled her absurdly huge smile, like she had at his protest over "dude."

Relaxing slightly with a small smile of his own, Will sat on the edge of a cotton covered couch. He turned his head and continued to look around.

He had no warning at all; his blood simply froze and he stopped breathing. The painting Leah had been working on was now in full view. Done in monochromatic blues, it was a picture of enigmatic sadness. A Wisconsin park in on a snowless winter day. A woman standing alone, arms holding a trench coat close. The woman stood straight and proud. She was achingly beautiful, her expression unreadable. She was unknowable, untouchable.

She was also, unmistakably, Irina Derevko. Sydney's mother and international terrorist.

"That's part of a new series," Leah said quietly behind him. Will barely had time to face her with a stupefied expression before the door to the apartment exploded in a cloud of oak shards and ash.

_So much for starting over.___

**End of Part One**


	2. The point

Title: A New Flame

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

General Note: Did Will ever go meet that painter? How's life treating him in Wisconsin?

Summary: Will and Leah meet an unexpected adversary

Feedback welcome and appreciated!!!

**Part Two: The point**

_[Will]_

Will clawed at Leah, caught her wrist. Ignoring her screams, he hauled her to the window that was mercifully open on that hot day. He shoved her out, shouting instructions. Her eyes were blank with fear, but her feet finally got into it and she flew down the metal stairs. He dove after her as the first bullets hit the windowsill.

"Go! Keep going!" he shouted, but it was unnecessary. She was climbing down faster than he would have thought possible. He skidded after her. A rain of bullets followed them, but they were a full landing down, and Will thought a clean shot unlikely. Unfortunately, he didn't hear steps following them. Which meant they were probably tearing down the stairs inside.

"When you get to the ladder, jump, don't climb!" He shouted. They were going to have to risk broken bones. Will thought he heard Leah make a strangled sound in her throat, and he began to doubt that he would walk away from this._What if she can't do it?_ Leah surprised him with an expert drop and roll. She launched back up and ran in the first direction she could think of—towards the community garden. Seconds later, Will followed.

They were almost to the relative cover of the trees when two men and a woman burst from the apartment complex. Their pursuers sprinted toward them.

"Go, go, go!" Will shouted. Leah didn't look back once, but started dodging through the trees with notable agility.

A few minutes later, Will knew it was useless. They had run right up Picnic Point—a small peninsula jutting out into the waters of Lake Mendota. _God damnit._

"This way," Will breathed, dragging Leah off to the side of the trail to the relative concealment of the thicker trees. "Don't speak. I'm going to have to fight. Stay out of sight."

Leah's breathing was jagged, and she clutched a stitch in her side. Her face was drained of color, but she nodded. With visible effort, she quieted her breathing and crouched into a clump of weeds clustered around a rock.

Will dashed up the trail and into the trees on the other side. His breath slowing a little, he ran through his options. He debated picking up a stone, almost laughed. _What would Syd do? What in the hell would she do?_

Will waited. He knew he didn't have long.

_[Leah]_

Her disbelief would have been absolute if it weren't for the rushing sound of fear in her mind. She could hear it. It roared like a waterfall, like a river running over her shoulders, around her ears. Leah fought to stay conscious. It seemed like the only thing she could see before her eyes were her paintings. Her paintings, which always showed the world as it should be, were all melting into one another before her eyes. But this was all wrong.

Nothing she had ever painted had captured the quality of her fear as she waited for three people—chasing a man she'd hardly met—to come and end her life.

None of her paintings had ever shown the terrible speed with which her pursuers came upon their hiding places.

No work of hers had hinted at the haunting grace that Jonah exhibited as he leaped onto the trail, meeting the first of the assailants with a roundhouse to the head.

And nothing she had ever imagined could prepare her for the strength she found to do what she did next.

_[Will]_

_Oh shit. Here they come._

The first kick was easy. He'd spent the last two years waiting to fight. He'd spent hundreds of dollars on tae kwon doe lessons with Master Yeoh in his tiny, stifling studio. He'd spent countless nights tangled in his sheets, racked with adrenaline as his mind conjured up Allison's taunts, Syd's "last" moments, and nameless pursuers in black. Pursuers kind of like these.

His roundhouse rendered the first assailant unconscious, but the next one was already on him. No time to think. Three elbow strikes in the right places and a sweep of his right leg brought the second man down, too. Will marveled quickly and wondered why he hadn't been shot yet. He lashed around, looking for the woman. He heard the cock of a gun behind him and froze.

"Where is the girl?" said a cool voice. "Tell me or you die right here, right now."

"Who's asking?" Damn his curiosity. It was always a problem. Expecting a bullet any second, he dared to turn around slowly. If he was going to die, he wanted to do it face first.

"That's not the right answer. Stop moving." Will froze again, wondering when he'd ever heard an Australian accent sound so unfriendly. He could see her now, though. He didn't know why he was surprised that she was beautiful. Syd was one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and the most dangerous, if he could believe all the stories that had flitted around headquarters.

The woman continued in a flat voice. "You mean nothing to me, and I will find her anyway. Why not buy your life and save me some trouble?"

Her cold logic burned his mind. _Why not, indeed?_ But he said, "What is she to you?"

"Wrong again. Think carefully before you answer." The summer sun burnished her blonde hair but did not warm her voice, which rose to a bark. "Where is she?"

"I'm here," Leah said. And dropped from the tree above the woman, tackling her as she fell. With a surprised grunt, the blonde was down, twisting to aim the gun at either of them. A moment later and she would have thrown the lighter Leah off, but Will was back in the game and pinned her right arm with his foot. He grabbed the gun, and she stilled. Leah sat awkwardly on the woman's back, seemingly stunned her gamble had paid off.

"Why are you here? Who do you work for?" Will held the gun near her head. The woman said nothing, but glared at him through slitted blue eyes. Short breaths of rage escaped through her large, square teeth. Grit sanded her otherwise flawless skin. Recognition suddenly slapped Will. He had seen her before. He knew it.

The woman knew it, too. She heaved abruptly, and Leah was thrown back. Will did the first thing he could think of: he pistol-whipped her brutally in the face, knocking her cold. She collapsed to the ground in an ungraceful bundle of limbs. _Why couldn't I shoot her? _

He hadn't been sure that he wouldn't hit Leah with a shot. Leah, whose body was trembling with apparent fear. Leah, who was clutching a wounded right leg. Leah, who could run through trees like a deer and drop from them like a demon. Leah, whose paintings…

Will re-aimed the gun. Leah recoiled, her blue eyes dark with new shock.

"Jonah—." She almost whimpered.

"How do you know Irina Derevko?" he demanded.

**End of Part Two**


	3. Three pair of aces

Title: **A New Flame**

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

General Note: Did Will ever go meet that painter? How's life treating him in Wisconsin?

Summary: More adventures with Will and Leah.

Feedback welcome and appreciated!!!

**Part Three: Three pair of aces**

The afternoon light streams into the child's bedroom window, brushing over two heads of dark hair. One girl's hair is straight and shinier than a new penny, the other's wavy and thick as a horse's tail. It is a careless summer day, the kind that only exists when you are five, or freshly in love. Afternoons on days like this go on forever: twilight seems unwilling to advance against the golden color of the air.

The two girls' heads bow over their game. Small hands rearrange ponies and dolls into strategies that would seem random to an adult observer. The girls laugh and chatter.

"I want to be the white rainbow pony this time. You can be the minty clover one."

"OK, but I get to be the mermaid when we play Beneath the Waves next. And you have to be the dolphin."

"'K." The girls grin at each other amiably. They always open each round of their play with careful negotiation. It's part of the fun, the set up. The planning.

Dressing Barbies is almost as entertaining as changing their jobs, or directing their adventures with kens or g.i. joes stolen from brothers. Each new outfit is another chance to experiment, to act differently. To set up a different way the game is played.

"Girls! Who wants popsicles?" A voice from below floats up on the lazy summer heat.

The girls look up as one, their lips forming little 'o's of anticipation. They jump up and run downstairs. The toys are forgotten, halted in the mysterious patterns of play.

It is another endless afternoon that summer. The girl with the shiny hair is dressed in a frothy pick tutu and leotard from last spring's dance recital. Mom cut the feet from the tights so they would still fit. She dances on bird legs—little naked feet jutting out from the cover of the tights. The girl goes up on her tiptoes, sticks a leg out, pirouettes. She runs through all five dance positions with an air of grave importance. Her large mouth thins slightly in concentration. Her small, brown eyes are serious.

The girl with the wavy hair watches, copies. Her expression is a mirror to the other's; her blue eyes are steady on her friend. Before long, they are both doing the routine with enthusiasm—even the kicks that Mme. Danais said would have to wait until next week. The impromptu lesson breaks down when the avid student tumbles over a thicker clump of grass, landing on her bottom with an expression so amazed that her instructor can't help but laugh a little. Dimples flash on the young girl's face as she giggles.

The wavy-haired girl gets up good naturedly, unhurt. "It's not hard, really. I just tripped. You should try a cartwheel if you think that's tough." She smiles to offset the bossy words. They are always pushing each other.

"Show me how, and I will." Brown eyes shine as the other girl accepts the challenge.

"OK. You put your hands up like this—."

"Sydney! Leah! Time for dinner!"

A woman stands tall in the doorway of the house. The sun makes her outline glow, creating a translucent halo from the little hairs that have escaped her ponytail.

"Make sure you wash your hands first, OK, ladies?"

"OK, Mom."

"OK, Ms. Bristow."

"After dinner, I have a surprise for you two. I thought we could have a ladies night in since Sydneys's father is away. Wouldn't that be fun?"

Leah looks at the beautiful, strong, kind woman and thinks that it would be.

_[Will]_

Will won't let go of his gun. Not this time.

"Why are they after you? How can you run and jump like that? _Who are you working for?_" The questions flooded from Will, but he was controlled, furious.

He shouted again. "Answer me, now! Were you sent here to watch me?" _Funny how I seemed to be doing this a lot.__ First Syd, now Leah. _

_Maybe I'm losing my mind._

Leah breathed heavily. Will thought she might hyperventilate. "Jonah," she gasped.

It set his teeth on edge, hearing her use that name. But maybe—just maybe—she's not a spy, doesn't mean to injure him with his alias.

_Everyone is a spy. Even people you love. Especially people you love._

"Jonah, I don't know what you are talking about! I'm just me! I live upstairs. We never met before today! Please, put the gun down! I'll swear to you—on anything!"

He kept the gun trained on her, waited.

"I-I'm fast because I was a gymnast. I even wanted to go to UCLA. To the Olympics. I-I destroyed my right ankle at a meet in high school and-and had to quit."

He didn't know why she supplied these details. But hearing them spoken into the lethal space between her and his gun added a note of reason to his fury. They sounded so normal.

She gestured to the crumpled forms on the ground. "I don't k-know who these people are, or-or why they chased us. I don't know who Irina is, either. You can kill me here, but you won't learn anything, because I. don't. know. anything!"

Will finally heard the terrified tone of her voice. He lowered the gun a little. _If she doesn't know anything, I'm really being an asshole._ _She probably saved my life._ He didn't put the gun down, though.

He knew telling her anything was a risk, but he reasoned that knowing just what he meant would make it easier for her if she was innocent, and harder for her if she was not.

"Who is the woman in your painting, then? The blue one on your easel?"

Leah blinked. "L-laura Bristow?"

_[Leah]_

Leah noticed his slight relaxation and other emotions started to assail her body. Anger and pain. What was going on here? Who the fuck was _he_? What the hell did her paintings have to do with anything? Why had three people just tried to kill them? Shit, her ankle hurt. She fought the old pain. It made her angrier. _I saved his damn life._ _Crazy asshole.___

Despite her rising fury, he still had the gun, so she forced herself to answer his insane question. Anger steadied her voice. "Laura Bristow was the mother of a childhood friend. The series I was starting was about people from my past that I—looked up to. Ms. Bristow—Laura, I guess—was always so…put together. I wanted to be just like her as a kid." _Not like my frowsy, chubby mother. _

Leah blinked. _I can't believe we're wasting time on this! What about the fucking assassins?_

Leah watched as Jonah seemed to deflate a little. _Maybe he believes me. _Maybe she wouldn't have to tell him the rest of it.

"You knew Sydney?" he stuttered. The name fluttered in the air like a broken kite. Jonah seemed at a loss.

His hesitation gave her courage. She was small but not weak. _This has gone on long enough._ "I'm not answering anything else until you tell me what the _fuck_ is going on. Who are these people? Who are _you_? What should we—."

The approaching sounds of tires screamed at them. Someone was driving here, fast.

"Quick, get back!" Jonah shouted. They dove into the trees again, waited. Leah's heart was hammering. Her leg was throbbing. _This is it, isn't it?_

Through her pain, fear and anger, she noticed that he'd become protective of her again. His arm was flung behind her back, but the gesture felt like it was meant to shield her, not pin her down. Apparently he'd decided she was the least of several evils. She felt the same way about him.

It wasn't much, but maybe it would get them out of this alive.

The tires on a hulking black SUV shredded the ground in front of their unconscious attackers as it slid sideways to a dramatic stop. Four men jumped from the vehicle and began loading the three figures into the car. A young blonde man got out of the passenger's side, moving with quick, contained motions.

Leah felt Jonah catch his breath. When he released it, it was a low hiss through clenched teeth. She thought she heard him say something sibilant, maybe a name. She was too busy trying not to scream, though—the man was looking directly at their hiding place. His expression was a composed but blank mask. Almost lazily he flicked his eyes to the supine woman being loaded into the van.

The man's eyes widened with barely concealed surprise. He bent to take a closer look, to touch a piece of hair. His hand lingered near her face; he seemed lost in thought. Perhaps calculating the angles of a new situation. The men handling her looked up at him, awaiting his signal. Finally, a small sneer broke his brief reverie, and he snapped back into action.

His English accent sounded alien in the Wisconsin summer air. "Finish this and get our contact on the phone."

The woman went in the van, a live cell phone came out. The man seemed bored as he spoke with his superior.

"Yes, we've extracted the team. From the looks of things, Tippin and the girl are gone. Not that I blame them." A smirk and a pause.

"Either the op was carelessly performed or something warned them. Tippin's not that talented. Although he does seem to be extremely fortunate." Pause.

"That will be impossible at the moment—she's been knocked unconscious." Pause.

"Why didn't you mention her involvement before? I would have found an earlier situation even more amusing." A longer pause, the man grew more serious.

"Local police forces are already at the apartments: we shall retrieve the item later. And this time we're going to do it my way." The blonde man terminated the call and looked again at the trees. His eyes seemed to bore into Leah's own, even though she knew if he could see her she would be dead already. _Holy shit.__ I'm going to lose it._

"I've got a message I would like to send Will Tippin." The man said quietly to himself. He blinked once more at the trees and sprang back into the vehicle, which spun away.

Leah slowly came back to herself. Her features unscrewed from their twist of worry. She turned on her back, breathing slow draughts of air until her heartbeat slowed to normal. She lay like that for what she thought was close to twenty minutes. _I don't think they are coming back._

She looked over. Jonah was still tense with rage. He glared miserably at where the man had stood. It took Leah two tries to get his attention.

"Hey," she whispered. "Hey!" She nudged him, and got the full effect of his azure gaze. His eyes were as bright as searchlights. She hesitated, swallowed. She waited as his eyes refocused and he recognized her.

"We have to find someplace safe," she said. "That is, if you think you can trust me, now." She took a chance and guessed. "Can I trust you, Will Tippin?"

He evaluated her calmly, then stood up. "OK, let's go." He held out a hand. "You can trust me, Leah Monroe."

She pulled back her already extended hand, said suspiciously, "How do you know my last name?"

A welcome hint of a smile crossed his face. "What? You don't snoop at the mailboxes?"

She actually laughed as she let him help her up.

**End of Part Three**


	4. Dark waters

Title: **A New Flame**

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

Summary for Part 4: Melancholy and angst weigh on Will and Leah

A/N: Feedback welcome and appreciated!!! If you read it, I'd love to hear about it. Even if you think it stinks. Thanks again to Eyghon for the correction on "Tippin". I will do penance to the Alias gods for misspelling dear Will's name!

**Part Four: Dark waters**

_[Leah]_

The full moon cast an eerie glow over the marina. Dark waves rocked the secured boat, slipping over nearby rocks and making them glisten wetly. Leah huddled up inside Will's Badgers jacket and hugged her bent legs close. She smelled the plastic of dried paint on her cargos as she rested her head on her knees. The scent drove into her heart, and she felt a sick ache for her studio. For a world she'd left behind only hours ago.

She knew she should try and get some sleep, but instead of closing her eyes she looked out at the water through the small window. Her ankle still hurt. So did that withered place in her mind, the place he used to fill. _Where are you, Brads? You would have had something funny to say about all this. How am I supposed to figure this all out without you?_

The sound of the waves on the hull was no answer at all.

Leah sighed and turned her head away from the window to peer out of the semi-enclosed seating area on the small boat. She looked at Jonah—no, _Will_—as he sat, scanning the night for the roar of an engine, the footfalls of an assassin, anything that meant they had been found. His profile was outlined in moonlight. Strong nose, thin lips. Those eyes. Leah felt a small proprietary glow. _I'm glad he is here with me. _With a sigh, she pushed the feeling away._ There are still secrets between us. He's still probably crazy. I must be, too. Why else would I be starting to believe him_?

She thought back on everything he had told her, and decided again not to mention the suspicion weighing on her mind. _Will won't know what is wrong with me. _But Leah knew that was a lie. She knew she hesitated precisely because there was every possibility that he _would_ know what was wrong with her. And she didn't want to hear it.

"Why did you want to know about Laura?" she had asked him earlier, as twilight fell and they settled into the boat. After he had finished his preposterous story about spies, the CIA, and the Witness Protection Program. __Leah's eyes had shone with sympathy for Sydney and pity for herself as Will spoke.__

"Leah, Laura Bristow died when Sydney was six," Leah caught her breath.The laughing little girl, living a life without a mother. _Oh, poor Sydney._

Will continued. "Or, that's what everyone thought. Until a couple of years ago, when Syd found out that Laura had never died at all, but was--," he swallowed, "was a Russian KGB agent who had returned to her home country."

Leah thought she detected a punch line. _Clearly, he's joking?_ But his eyes were grave; she didn't laugh. Perfect, gorgeous, warm Laura Bristow? A double agent for Russia? It sounded so preposterous, so…outdated. _Aren't we friends with Russia, now? _Not trusting her voice, Leah said nothing.

"It sounds crazy, I know. Her real name is Irina Derevko. She is an international terrorist, now, Leah. I thought you might be working with her. That was the reason for—well, for the whole gun thing," he finished lamely.

Leah couldn't speak. _Why does it hurt this much?_ She hadn't heard from Syd in forever: Leah had moved to another school when she was almost six. They had each met new neighbors, new friends.

But a part of Leah had always remained in that summer. She could relive cart-wheeling with Sydney like it was yesterday. The feel of the grass on her hands or the sound of Syd's laugh in the air felt hardwired into her brain. Leah remembered Laura's voice with a surpassing clarity. In fact, whenever Leah reprimanded herself, used that internal grown-up voice that everyone carries around to self-inflict punishments or judgments, it was Laura's voice she heard.

And that, of course, was the whole problem.

_[Will]_

It was probably foolish, but he and Leah didn't go to a safe house. The Witness Protection Program ("the Program", it was called by Will and the few members he'd been allowed to meet, briefly) had one on the outskirts of town. He was sure the CIA had a few.

But Will remembered the time that he'd surrendered himself into the care of the CIA, entered one of those houses with blind trust. Sydney had told him he would be fine, but Sark, a batch of tranquilizer darts, and—later—a nameless, sadistic torturer all made a lie of her assurances. It didn't matter that he had survived, that Sydney and her father had risked their lives and their cover to save him. He still felt betrayed by that empty promise of safety.

Alone on the boat in the quickly chilling lake air, Will smiled wryly at the memory of his last time with Syd in a safe house. Warsaw. A bottle of vodka. The taste of Syd's lips and—later—the feel of her teeth on his skin. A night that had made him feel more whole, and more broken, than ever.

There was nothing like a safe house to make Will feel horribly exposed.

So they had gone to the marina and took out one of the boats under Mari's membership. They had sailed on the lake for the rest of the afternoon, Leah tending the sails, dressed in clothing bought at the marina gift shop with the last of Will's cash. A white fisherman's hat had hid her trademark hair. His jacket under her t-shirt had bulked out her petite figure. He stayed out of sight, crammed into the seating area. She joined him for brief moments when she could, and they traded the rest of their stories.

Hers was short, normal, like he had supposed earlier. She went to school. She painted. She was going to be an art professor. He thought she might be keeping something back—he wondered about the paintings over the bed still—but he didn't push her. _She's lost someone, too._

His story was, of course, nearly absurd. He told her about Syd's finance's murder, his subsequent investigation and abduction, and the end of his career as a journalist. He told her that Syd's best friend, Francie, had been killed and replaced with a genetic double, Allison Doren, an enemy spy. He told her that the choice to enter the Program had been an easy one, once he thought Sydney was dead. It sounded insane to his own ears. It always did.

He didn't tell her that he'd been dating "Francie" when she tried to kill him and Sydney. After two years, he still couldn't believe he didn't see it immediately, didn't know something was wrong. He didn't tell her he loved Sydney, and would until he died. She might have guessed, though. _Most people do._

It had been twilight then, and they had no trouble slipping back onto the boat after they had ostensibly returned it and signed out.

Will was on his second shift of watch. Leah was sleeping in the cramped seating area behind him. Or not sleeping, he decided as he heard a stifled sigh and restless noises.

His heart beat painfully in his chest when he thought about Leah. She had taken the news about Irina hard, even though it had been ages since she'd seen her or Sydney. Will wasn't sure why, but he wasn't about to begrudge her a few heady emotions. She had lived a normal life until this afternoon.

_She has lost so much, so quickly. _

He turned around to find her looking at him with limpid eyes. Her gaze seemed to peel back his skin until his heart was glinting in the moonlight, gory and beautiful. __

_She knows me. _

The thought almost stopped his breath. Will knew the truth of it as soon as it formed in his mind. He suddenly wanted to cross to where she was, to comfort her. He dropped his eyes. He didn't dare. He'd pulled a gun on her today. _She would think I was demented._

He looked at her again, cautiously._ She is so small. _

"Will?" she whispered. The sound almost blended into the waves—but there it was. In that one word, Will heard an unspoken request and felt it answered in his own body and mind.

He moved carefully into the tiny space to take her in his arms.

**End of Part Four**


	5. The thrill of relief

Title: **A New Flame**

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

Summary for Part 5: Let's get it on! I mean "started", er…

**Rating for this chapter: R**

A/N: Feedback welcome and appreciated!!! If you read it, I'd love to hear about it. Even if you think it stinks.

**Part Five: The thrill of relief**

_[Sark]_

Sark repelled down the face of the apartment building. There were other ways to gain entry, naturally, but this one definitely won for style.

The moonlight glinted off of the metal in his equipment, and he was glad he had remembered to cover his light hair with a close-fitting navy knit hat. Not that he would have forgotten. Sark's malevolence was strangely tidy: anything worth doing was worth doing right. He knew it was going to be a full moon, which was more than he can say for the Covenant flunky who had planned this whole op.

He wasn't even sure which incompetent imposter had given the original orders. Only that he had been detoured from the Bristow project to go extract three agents who had blundered their way into unconsciousness in the middle of the day. It wasn't good for Sark's employers to display weakness: a ring of carrion was always circling. No one—from international alliances to humble murderers for hire—would wait long to exploit the Covenant if it stumbled. Sark smiled grimly at the thought. But fantasizing about the Covenant's downfall didn't change the fact that he was on clean-up duty now.

Sark had been in Chicago, negotiating the sale of a suddenly precious commodity. Sark was pleased: the spectacular decimation of most of his cache at the hands of Sydney Bristow had only served to inflate the price of Sark's one remaining specimen. A good trade, in the end. His grateful customer had even commandeered Sark a private jet, with the use of a very _polite_ masseuse. The trip to Madison had passed quickly.

Sark stopped at the window. As part of a crime scene, it was left open. _Cops are so predictable._ He would have set an alarm. To be fair, few knew the value of the object inside. His intel indicated that even the girl didn't know. _Irina has done her work carefully, as always. _

His black boots balanced on the shredded sill as he unclipped his harness. He dropped into the room, landing quietly, like a hunting cat.

All he had to do was wait for her to come back. _This is going to be easy. _

_[Leah] _

Leah could hear Will's heart beating beneath her ear. She was curled up against his chest; she could fit entirely inside his embrace. _Sometimes it's good to be small._ He was so warm.

He hadn't tried anything. He seemed to know she just needed him there, to remind her that she hadn't lost everything today. She still had the concern of another human being. _We are in this together. _

Maybe she should tell him. Tell him that she heard Laura's voice in the vacuum of her mind. Had been hearing it so long that she assumed it was her own. That she was afraid. That she didn't know what Laura wanted. _Not Laura. Irina._

His voice, husky with lack of sleep, interrupted her thoughts. "Leah?"

"Yes, Will?" His name sounded so natural to her. Which was funny, because she thought Jonah had fit him, too. She supposed he just made sense to her.

"Have you ever thought you knew someone—really thought you _knew_ them, y'know, and then found out that you didn't at all?" _Is he talking about Syd's friend, Francie?_

Will went on, "And it's like they had a whole different galaxy in their head, even though they were standing right next to you?"

Leah breathed in. _That's exactly how I felt with Bradley._ "Yeah…I have. The man who painted those paintings over my bed…I always thought that if—if I could just _understand_ him, if I could see who has really was, I could give him what he needed. I could save him from himself."

Leah squeezed a mirthless chuckle from her lungs. Bitterness salted her voice. "I was working on a painting of him when he—when he killed himself. I'm not good at painting the world the way it is. I always get confused with what I think it ought to be. I realized my vision of him was all wrong. But I figured it out only when it was too late to help him."

Will was silent. _Maybe I offended him._ She lifted her head to look into his eyes. She saw tears. They were like a vice around her chest, squeezing away her breath.

"Leah," he breathed. Again, "Leah."

"Shh…shhh my darling…" She kissed his eyelids. She couldn't watch him cry. "It's OK…shhh…"

Her hands smoothed his hair, stroked his back. Leah had just meant to sooth, but she found her mouth on his, and he was returning the kiss. His tongue was hot and foreign, but it sent sparks through her body.

Knowledge that she was still here, still alive after all these hours of peril, suffused her senses. Leah quaked with a thrilling relief and found it was almost the same as desire. In fact, there hardly seemed to be a difference at all…

She pushed her hands under his shirt and heard a soft sound in his throat. _We still have to be quiet. Damn_. She took the shirt off anyway, pressing her finger to his lips to keep him from making noise.

Will pulled back slightly to chuckle at her management of him. His eyes flashed with humor. "Is that how this is going to be?"

Apparently, it was. Not that she heard him complaining when she removed her own top, loosened her rainbow spattered pants and shimmied them off. Or when she guided his hands over her slim body. Or when she—painstakingly slowly—inched his pants down, stroking and massaging his tired muscles. Muscles that, only hours ago, had forced open a chance for them to survive.

She let him return the favor. Will's hands were a revelation on her back, her shoulders, her thighs and calves. He kneaded her skin with his thumbs gingerly at first, but with more pressure and heat as she encouraged him. Leah noticed _she_ was the one making sounds, now.

But as good as the massage was, Leah had to admit that it only got better from there.

_[Will]_

Will brushed the top of Leah's head rhythmically with his fingers as she slept. The moon had begun to set, but it was still bright out. Tomorrow, maybe, they would call the CIA, see where they should go from here. _We seem safe enough for now._

Will couldn't believe the depth of his calm.

After the first fight with Allison he'd been sure he wouldn't date for a very long time. Truth be told, between her and Sydney, Will had expected to die a bachelor. He knew it was pathetic, but he had only dated three women seriously—and none longer than a year—in the eight years he had known Sydney Bristow.

_Wait a second. I didn't count both Francie _and_ Allison. __That makes four, at least. _

Will lifted a side of his mouth sardonic reflection. _That might be the first joke I've ever made about it. _Never mind that Leah wasn't awake to share it with him. He could tell her jokes enough tomorrow, and all the days after that.

Will felt like a cooling salve had been spread on his mind. He was not going to die a bachelor in cold Wisconsin. Miles away from a newspaper of any importance. Miles away from his mother and sister, who both thought he was dead. He knew that wasn't going to work for him anymore. Can't imagine why he ever thought it was going to.

He was, for the first time in at least two years, a free man.

Will was still savoring the luscious relief of freedom when he felt Leah begin to stir in his arms. It looked like she was having a nightmare. Her eyelids fluttered, and her mouth worked silently. He looked down on her in concern, considered waking her.

"No…" she muttered gruffly. "No…"

_That's it._ Will shook Leah slightly. "Baby…Leah, wake up. It's just a dream, baby…"

Leah's eyes jostled open, and she stared blindly at him. The irises of her eyes were huge, like they would be in fear, or arousal. They gave her stare an otherworldly quality.

Despite himself, Will recoiled. "Leah?"

Leah blinked rapidly, but her eyes remained dark. She sat up suddenly at looked directly at him.

"I'm sorry, Will." Then she elbowed him precisely, clinically, in the left temple.

As his consciousness faded, he thought he saw her run away, leaping from boat to boat with preternatural speed. She was headed straight for their apartment building.

**End of Part Five**

**A/N: OK, you got this far. Why not tell me about it? It will fuel the next installment, I promise!**

Also, I'm trying to make this not an AU, but I might be bending timeframes a little to my purposes. Please forgive. JJ and crew keep our characters' schedules packed: it's hard to borrow them for too long.


	6. Life is but a dream

Title: **A New Flame**

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

Summary for Part 6: Will and Leah are caught up in their thoughts

A/N: A lot of people put flashbacks in italics, so I'm trying to represent the past in both italics and present tense. That means thoughts become non-italic in the past, and vice versa. Hope it isn't too confusing.

Feedback welcome and appreciated!!! If you read it, I'd love to hear about it. Even if you think it stinks.

**Part Six: Life is but a dream**

_[Laura]_

_Unfortunately, Sydney isn't an option. Jack protected her long ago from any meddling but his, preparing his mind games before she was even born. Laura knows better than to interfere—as much as she enjoys the little agent Sydney is becoming, Sydney has always been Jack's project. _

_Laura finds Jack's precautions adorably ironic. He protects his daughter from brainwashing at the same time that he secures her future in one of the world's most dangerous occupations._ I guess he's decided that if he didn't program her, someone else would. Someone like me.

_Jack is right, of course; his ability to analyze borders on prescience.__ But Laura keeps her secrets very, very well. Beset with work, sure in his plans, Jack does not notice that what he does to Sydney instructs Laura what to try with her subjects. _

_Laura, however, thinks it is a nice division of labor. It is Jack's job to slip into the minds of children. It is Laura's duty to learn how he does it._

_The girls are drawing at the kitchen table, heads close to their little crayon scenes. They are quiet, absorbed. Jack is not due home until tomorrow at the earliest. Laura watches the children draw. _They are so beautiful.

_Leah excels, drawing fantastical unicorns and maidens that Syd envies silently. _

_Sydney__ uses her markers to draw people. Today, Dad and Mom hold hands on her paper. Scamper the cat hides in the grass. Syd dances on the lawn, under a sky formed by a simple blue stripe at the top of the page. Their crayon house spouts a perfect curl of smoke from a chimney that their real house doesn't have. "M" birds fly by, getting a good view of this ideal family. _

_Moments like this turn Laura's heart over. _That's enough of that.

_"Leah, honey, can I see your picture?"_

_"Sure, Ms. Bristow."__ Leah scuttles over, settles in the chair next to where Laura was paying bills. Never one to miss out, Syd leans over and looks, too._

_"Wow, that's really neat, Leah." Laura's voice is warm, enveloping._

_Leah beams. Ms. Bristow is always so nice. And so pretty. "See, that's the snow-unicorn-princess-queen, Sara. She can ride her unicorn, Star, with this magic saddle. I always pretend like she goes invisible when she uses the saddle, but I can't draw that, 'cause it's invisible."_

_Syd__ giggles, and Laura smiles indulgently. "Can I draw something on your paper, Leah?"_

_"OK." Syd and Leah lean in closer._

_"Watch my pen, ladies, and I'll show you how to draw something very special." _

_Laura's pen never leaves the paper, slowly tracing out an ancient figure. It looks likes a maze, or an engineer's diagram. Laura has practiced many times to get it right. The movement of her hand in sinuous, entrancing. Syd's head soon drifts to the table in simple sleep. _

_Leah stares into nothing, pupils dialated._

_"Now, Leah…" Laura begins._

_[Leah]_

The air was cold, but she was moving fast. Adrenaline surged through her body, commanding that she move on, on, on. Past the pain in her ankle. Past the fatigue in her muscles. Past the shattering of her will.

She moved with an unconscious grace, mounting the sides of neighboring boats with more finesse than she had ever tackled the vault. Soon her feet met the dock, and she pounded toward the shore. She jumped off the dock onto the small sandbar that stretched along the water. Her light, quick tread formed no footprints. She ran past the last of the boats like a pale ghost.

She was passing into a dream world. She was dissolving, losing her form. Her thoughts were inchoate, her body was alien. Her limbs moved her over the ground, keeping up a terrible speed, but her mind seemed to have gotten lost. Leah recognized her dreamscape: she was back in one of her own paintings.

The last spark of her consciousness waded through liquid eddies of color that coiled around her, threatening to pull her apart. Awash in a senseless sea of hues, she felt as if her flesh was fading, becoming transparent. Soon she would be a clear lens, helplessly focusing the beam of another's volition. She was drowning in the river of her own consciousness. A nameless force held her under. Breathing was impossible. A booming voice was like waves crashing through her mind. With a desperate gasp, Leah Monroe gave in and listened.

The instructions were startlingly vivid.

_You must always keep it safe. You cannot let anyone get it. You are expendable. Your country depends on your haste._

Leah's body obeyed, moving relentlessly toward a metal staircase. Toward a window open in the Wisconsin darkness.

Leah mind still swirled in the sea of colors. A patch of white appeared in the haze. It seemed like a unicorn was standing before her, flickering like an old movie. She tried to run toward it, but she was weighed down by heavy silken robes. Leah knew if she could get to the great beast, she could fly away. _But, wait._ The white patch turned into Sydney's night gown. Leah could see her sleeping on the ground. _It must be a sleep over._

"Syd!" Syd just lay there.

"Sydney!" Leah tried again. Something was wrong with her voice, though. It sounded mechanical. Slightly musical, like the ring of a cell phone.

Dream-Syd stirred. She sat up, scrunching her face in distaste.

Leah shouted with relief. "Syd! You have to help—," But Syd was running away, hands clamped over little pink ears. The phone noise continued until Leah stopped shouting.

It was replaced, incongruously, with a smooth English voice. The cold circle of a gun barrel on her temple snapped Leah back into herself. The voice continued.

"I appreciate your attention to our little timetable. You're right on schedule."

_[Will]_

Will woke up swearing. _Since when did I become this easy? _Clutching at his still throbbing head, he felt the deep pull of self-loathing. _How could anyone associated with Derevko be innocent?_ Syd had told him bitterly how charismatic Irina was, how she had somehow even gotten Syd to begin to love her before she betrayed the CIA and reunited with Sloane. Will reflected that that had taken Irina months to earn Syd's love. It appeared as if he had been fooled by Leah in a matter of hours. _Nice. The damsel in distress bit. Idiot._

But in the back of his mind, Will wondered. _Was I fooled?_ He knew he wasn't stupid, or even that naïve anymore. He wasn't the same man he had been when this all began. The young upstart reporter who had traded glib jibes with his coworkers and guilelessly adored Sydney-Bristow-the-banker was dead.

Will was a harder, more removed version of himself. His quick mind still observed the world around him in minute detail, but his sober mouth less often commented on any of it. In a brief flash, Will remembered how he had shorn his head in a spasm of grief after he thought Sydney was dead. He would have looked like a chemo patient at the funeral, if he had attended it. Will hadn't gone. Racked with grief and pain, he had let Sydney and the twisted world of espionage recede behind him as he traveled north. That didn't mean he forgot: as a tribute to her and his dead past, Will let Jonah keep his hair short.

As Jonah, the rest of his personality had been shaved to essentials, too.

Three weeks ago, Sydney had brought Will back to life. He had felt Jonah fall away for a moment as she called him by his real name, her face trembling with sadness. She was alive, and Will knew then that he had returned from the dead with her.

But even as she sighed in his arms later that night, her neck arching with pleasure, she had belonged—as ever—to someone else. She had even told him so, right before she crushed herself to him in a desperate bid for solace. Will would not have traded those moments for anything, but he knew his resurrection was incomplete. He was alive, but gravely wounded, much the way he had left LA in the first place.

Leah and the events of the past few hours had made him feel like himself again. His days as Jonah were black and white, but this was vivid, saturated color. Syd wasn't there to protect him. Allison wasn't there to brainwash him. _He_ was the active force here.

And he had to admit that, in meeting Leah, Will felt he had fleetingly touched a soul so similar to himself that it caused his bones to ache.

But then again, maybe that was just where she had hit him.

Will rubbed his head as the pain receded._ Time to establish some facts. See what kind of story we really have here._

If Leah was working with Irina, he'd better get out of the boat, and fast. What had seemed like a haven would soon become a trap. But even if Leah was working with Irina, she was _not_ working with the blonde woman. Will doubted that he was so important in the grand scheme of things that they would have gone through an elaborate charade to fool him. No, the fight had been real. The woman had meant to kill or capture Leah. And the blonde was working with Sark, even if Sark seemed surprised by it. Sark, who said that he was going to return to the apartment. Sark, who been working with Allison to kill Francie. Sark, who would almost certainly kill Leah if he found her. Sark, who had said he had a message to give him.

Will's eyes clouded with fury. _Well, he is just going to have to give it to me in person, then._

**End of Part 6**


	7. Words like knives

Title: **A New Flame**

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants.

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

Summary for Part 7: Sark taunts. Leah fights. Will confronts.

A/N: Feedback welcome and appreciated. Story intended to be canon, but I might have bent timeframes a little. Please forgive.

**Part Seven: Words like knives**

_[Sark]_

_It is quite unfair, really._ Rather than cowering before his weapon, Leah had expertly feinted and used his millisecond of hesitation to beat away the gun. Sark's brain was still registering the shock as a second blow glanced off his shoulder. His body retreated, automatic, but Sark knew a moment of supreme disorientation. He'd barely had time to fall away—and that strike would have broken some bones if it had connected. _I mean, who would have guessed? She's practically miniature._

This never happened to Sark. Oh, he fought for his life often enough—mostly Bristow's fault, although his line of work was dangerous enough without her. But Sark rarely underestimated his enemies…or his accomplices. It was therefore a doubly unusual scenario: for in Leah, Sark found some of both.

Sark blocked another surprisingly adept attack and noted that Leah was clearly fighting him with all she had. She was, for the moment, an enemy. But her moves were not those of a trained CIA agent, or even those of a self-taught thief or a frenzied Rambaldi vigilante. Leah was not his typical quarry. In fact, as she spun to avoid his own vicious counterattack, she reminded him of no one more than Irina. Irina, who had always had a place for him by her side. Irina, his original accomplice. Sark realized he should have anticipated Leah's fighting style, given that he knew her connection to Irina.

"This is rather inconvenient, you know, given that I have an understanding with Irina already regarding the object."

Sark backed off to smirk as his little opponent. He was barely winded, but he could see her in the moonlight, nearly shaking with fatigue. Nonetheless, he couldn't kill her. She was still fighting stubbornly, and he needed her cooperation to succeed. He'd intended to force it, but that became far less convenient with every punch combo she sent his way.

"You lie." Heavy breaths tangled her words, but she hissed them out. "I know you are here to take it for yourself. And I won't let that happen."

Sark was still semi-crouched in a fighter's stance. His tongue flicked almost imperceptibly over his top lip. _Change of plan._

"So Irina didn't tell you about me, then? No, I suppose not. However, she did tell me a lot about you."

"Shut up!" Leah seemed ready to throw herself into it again. Sark smiled mirthlessly.

"I believe you were quite a disappointment. You see, I think she expected you to _grow_ more."

With a guttural yell, Leah launched another attack. Sark had to commend her training and desire, but she was tired and untried. He blocked her blows unhurriedly. Then, as she spun to aim a back kick at his groin—_we can't have that_—he moved to the side and adroitly swept her off balance. She fell with a muffled gasp of rage. He was at her throat with his switchblade before she could move. His other hand produced a small wooden shaft. It was well-oiled wood, made of two conjoined cylinders. One end tapered to a slim wedged point. Leah blanched and became still. Sark swung his leg over her so that he was kneeling around her chest, pinning her arms.

"This encounter has been...diverting. But I think it's time that we discussed certain qualities of this object. For example, how does one remove the cap?"

"I'll never tell you," Leah gritted.

"I thought as much. Fortunately, I have a good idea how these contraptions operate by now."

He leaned closer to Leah, who narrowed her eyes and drew a sharp breath in distaste. "In one of Rambaldi's most popular stratagems, the blood of a specific individual unlocks an artifact. Shall we try that option, hmm?"

Leah didn't favor him with a reply. His knife winked in the moonlight. He leaned some of his weight on her.

"I suggest you remain still."

Sark slowly drew his blade across Leah's skin, following the line of her collarbone. Blood welled up along the cut, collecting at the end in tear-like drop that spilled down her chest. Leah tensed in revulsion but her face showed no sign of pain.

Leah finally spoke, her voice clenched with anger. "This…will… be…the last time you toy with me like this."

"You know, think you're right," Sark smiled, allowing a small flash of malice cross his otherwise perfectly schooled features.

He met the end of the wound with the tip of the shaft, allowing blood to flow onto it. The blood circled down the length of the shaft, marking it with a primordial spiral. Nothing else happened. Sark sighed, shaking his head. He leaned harder on her ribcage until her breathing became shallow.

"Oh, dear. Perhaps a key phrase?" Leah flicked her eyes away involuntarily. _So that's it._ Sark pursed his lips slightly. "I'm afraid we're wasting time." He leaned closer to Leah. His breath settled on her face. He held the knife where she could see it.

It occurred to Sark that Irina would not approve of what he was going to do; she would consider his actions the waste of a good asset. _Nevertheless. She left me to rot in CIA custody for two years._ Judging Sark was a privilege Irina forfeited long ago.

Leah took that moment to lunge at him with her only weapon—her forehead. Sark felt his bones creak under the contact. Cursing, he loosened his grip slightly. Leah contracted desperately, rising a few inches off the ground. But he was too heavy, too in control. She fell back, her head slamming against the unforgiving floor. Sark snarled as his left hand closed around her throat and his right held the knife above her.

His voice was chillingly subdued. "Tell. me. the pass-phrase." He emphasized his words by tightening his grip.

Leah's strangled breathing was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a gun cocking. Sark turned slowly, his eyes murderous.

"Hello, Sark." Will stood in the window, silhouetted in the waning moonlight.

_[Leah]_

_This day has been one long face-off._ Leah barely had time to catch her breath as Sark released her throat and dragged her to her feet in front of him. His blade remained at her neck. The moment was heavy with shades of other scenes. Will trading words the blonde woman. Will holding his fire on the blonde because Leah was in the way. Will threatening Leah with the gun, sure she was his enemy. Had that all only been this afternoon? _I must have lived a lifetime since then. _It seemed they were doomed to repetition, she and Will. And why not? She was his enemy again, after all.

Leah wondered almost idly if Will was going to kill them both outright. She had nearly given up hoping to get out of this alive; his presence meant she would almost surely die.

Will seemed to agree. "Don't bother, Sark. She's nothing to me. All this means is I can kill both of you at once."

Leah heard the conviction in Will's voice. Sark tensed almost imperceptibly, which meant he heard it, too. She remained still, impassive. She wished only for one, small grace: _let Will learn the truth some day. Let him know that those hours on the boat were not a lie. Let him know that I could have loved him. Let him know…_

Incredibly, it was Sark who answered her prayers.

"Ah, then you'd truly be doing the world a favor, ridding it of two of Irina Derevko's greatest prodigies in one shot."

"That's the idea," Will grated.

"I suppose it means nothing to you that one of us was an unwilling participant in our training? I'll leave it to you to decide which…"

Apparently, Sark had decided he rather liked her as a human shield. Leah's throat constricted in a tight spasm of hope.

Will swore. "I've had enough of your lies! Both of you." Will circled them menacingly, then backed up to the phone by what was left of the door. "You can tell it to the CIA, Sark. I'm sure they've kept your cell nice and clean for you."

"All your research on Project Christmas, and you don't recognize the product of childhood conditioning?"

Will said nothing, only reached for the receiver. Sark continued, undaunted. "Very unprofessional, Tippin. Of course, you had trouble identifying Allison, as well. Pathetic, really. Do you always repeat your mistakes like that? It's amazing you're still alive."

Will threw down the receiver and strode over to Sark and Leah. His deep blue eyes locked on Sark's icy blue ones. The barrel of Will's gun rested on Sark's smooth brow.

"Allison is dead," Will whispered.

Sark matched Will's whisper. He seemed to be speaking through pain. "Second time's the charm."

And then everything became a blur. Sark lashed out at Will with the knife he'd had at Leah's throat. Will stumbled back, aimed, shot. His shots passed through air as Sark rolled away neatly towards the window. Leah dove in the other direction, her fingers miraculously clasping around Sark's gun.

_That was lucky. Please, let me kill Sark before…_

It was too late. A muffled boom and a flash of pain told Leah that Will had fired.

**End of Part Seven**

A/N: Last chapter coming soon…Stay tuned…In the meantime, please let me know what you think of the story.


	8. Taking chances

Title: **A New Flame**

Timeframe: Late Season Three, after Remnants.

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

A/N: **I LIED. This is not the last chapter.** I had intended it to be; I was just going have a short epilogue. But I starting getting all these ideas for the epilogue, (Sydney makes a cameo!) and it became a chapter on its own. Which is coming soon…

Thanks to my faithful reviewers and new guests as well. You guys keep me going!

**Part 8: Taking chances **

_Will_

Will cursed as Sark's blonde head disappeared below the window. _Oh, no you don't. _He ran to the sill and fired down into the night. The moon had set and Sark dropped quickly, swallowed up almost immediately by darkness. Will kept on firing, but he knew that it was to assuage his anger as much as anything. He was an untrained shot; he would have had to get lucky to hit Sark as he reached the ground and sprinted away. It seemed like he wasn't going to get lucky, this time. Seconds later a black SUV skidded into view. Will watched by the glow of the headlights as a door was flung open, and Sark leapt in. The vehicle spun away. He was gone. _And that leaves…_

Will hesitated, guilt gnawing him from the inside out. He didn't want to turn around. He knew what he would see: Leah crumpled on the other side of the room, bleeding from his bullet.

_It was all you could do._ Leah had grabbed a gun, and Will had no idea if it was to shoot at him or Sark. He hadn't waited to find out. Sark had used the diversion to escape with the Rambaldi brush. _Now…now Leah might be dead._

Leah, whose small hands had stroked away his sorrow. Leah, who was an unwilling enemy, courtesy of Irina Derevko and her past patriotic zeal. Leah, who knew all the loyalty and pain in Will's soul, for she shared it.

Will heard a shuffling behind him. Leah, who was _not_ dead, apparently.

He wheeled abruptly. She was standing with obvious pain. She had picked up the gun again, but she was holding it in her left hand. Will saw with a twinge of remorse that her right arm was covered in blood from a bullet wound to her shoulder. It hung, useless, at her side.

"Leah." Will's voice was grim. He had shot her once. His gun was raised to do it again, if he had to. _Please let there be another way._

"Stay away from me." Leah clenched her teeth. Her gun rose slowly to the level of his chest.

"Put the gun down, Leah. I just want to talk." He didn't know if he meant it. He walked forward anyway.

"Stay. Away. You heard him. I'm dangerous." She backed up until she was against the wall. Her voice was pained, confused, but she had a hard glint of determination in her eyes. It reminded him of Sydney.

Will paused. _OK, we're going to do this the hard way._ Their guns stayed locked on each other. "Leah, there's something I have to tell you. It's not hopeless."

"How can you say that, Will? You have no idea what it feels like to have someone else _inside_ of you. She could say anything, and I would do it." Leah readjusted her gun, to remind him it was there. "She could make me kill you."

"You're wrong. I know _exactly_ what it feels like."

A lunatic laugh escaped her. "Fuck you."

"God damn it, Leah! Francie wasn't just a "friend" of mine. We were dating when Allison replaced her. When we—when we first made love, it was _Allison_, not Francie."

Will spit out the words. They were seeped in bitterness. "And when I slept, Allison…did things to me. Like Irina did to you. She changed the way I thought, what I could remember. She made me share Sydney's secrets."

Leah flinched at this new information, as if in sympathy, but she was undeterred. "Then they can do anything, Will. Don't you see? This is who I am, now. Everything else is temporary. I can't choose what to keep for myself anymore."

"_No_. That's not true. You can go back—you can change this. The CIA has people that can help you fight it. They cured me."

"You call this 'cured'? They might have fixed your mind, Will, but where are we? In case you don't remember, you're a long way from LA. Or didn't you tell them you wanted your life back, too?"

Will forced himself to remain calm. "You have to try. You have to try, Leah!"

Something in his voice finally reached her. She still held the gun, but it was wavering. "I can't do it! She won't let me! I can't go back!"

"Yes, you can."

"I can't! It's too late." But she lowered the gun, as if in exhaustion. Tears flowed down her face. Her voice was thick with sobs. "I won't ever be right again, Will. I can't make it right."

She slid down the wall slowly, as if each joint in her body was breaking one by one.

"Yes, you can. Yes, you can." He took a step toward her as she crumpled. He pulled her to him before she hit the ground. "You can, Leah," he breathed into her ear.

"I was just a little kid." Her voice was small, broken.

"I know…shh…I know." He held her as she cried.

_Leah_

It took them two months to break Irina's conditioning. Two months of seclusion at a remote CIA ward perched on a cliff above the Oregon coast. Two months of hypnotic regression, of opening the gateways and triggers in her mind. It wasn't exactly a science, and, in her darkest moments, Leah wondered what the difference was between Laura's programming and that of the CIA.

_I have to believe that there is a difference. Otherwise, I have nothing to live for._

Well, that wasn't quite true. Will visited every morning, displaying a faithfulness that would have broken her heart—_I don't deserve this_—if it hadn't made her so happy. It pained her that he couldn't stay the night, but she knew the reason. They didn't have to tell her he was too vulnerable as he slept. That realization spurred her on through the endless probing questions, the sterile laboratories, the experimental sedatives, and the irritating pseudo-science. _When this is done, he won't have to leave._

Her morning walks with Will were her one respite. They walked among the tide pools, talking quietly of their futures. Leah liked to watch the slow undulation of the pastel anemones; she found their steady rhythm soothing. Will admired the stalwart starfish, clinging to the exposed rocks, awaiting the return of the sea.

They rarely mentioned the pain they had shared. Lives upended by the world of espionage. Chosen careers cut short. Lovers lost to suicide or treachery. Minds that bore the stamp of foreign encroachment.

Instead, they would make love, spread out on a blanket that he brought. They were always careful, always tender with each other. Will babied her shoulder. It was still bandaged, but returning quickly to full rotation. Their kisses tasted like the ocean.

The sea lingered on her lips each day, long after he had left.

**End of Part 8**

A/N Please hit the review button if you get this far. I love hearing from y'all!

Next (and last, I promise) chapter coming soon…


	9. After the flames

Title: **A New Flame**

Author: Edes

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me

A/N Timeframe for Epilogue: _During_ the Season Three finale, _Resurrection_. Pretend that there were a few days between the time when Syd and Vaughn killed Lauren and when Syd went to the bank in Wittenberg. (Not too far-fetched, right? Syd would have wanted to see Vaughn settled in the hospital, etc.) That's when the phone call takes place.

Thanks so much to my faithful reviewers (you know who you are)! I couldn't have finished it without y'all. I'd love to welcome any new readers, too—thanks for reading!

**Epilogue: After the Flames**

_Leah_

Leah decided to celebrate her release from the CIA ward by having an art show. _Time to shed these demons._ Will, delighted, helped her rent gallery space and advertise in the local paper. The University had already sent her paintings to the facility at no charge—Leah suspected the CIA was behind that. Well, it was fine if they pampered her a little.

She spent two days hanging and re-hanging the works. Leah banished Will from the gallery, and she chuckled to herself whenever she remembered his puppy-eyed look. But she had needed to do this alone. So much of _her_ was in those paintings; ordering them in the space felt like fulfilling the final phase of her therapy.

Bradley's series was there, too, intercut with her works. The painting of Irina had jumped from wall to wall, never blending in. It finally settled on an easel by itself in the center of the room. It was the only one not hanging—but, then again, it was the only one not finished. Leah didn't want to make it too precious, though, so she counterbalanced its central position of honor by placing the cheese buffet right next to it. It was Wisconsin cheese, of course.

00

As evening fell on the night of her opening a sizable crowd filtered among the paintings, talking quietly, admiring. Their hushed voices blended with the soft music. The sounds of glasses chinking emanated from the wine bar. Fresh-cut lemons floated in water glasses around the room, giving off a clean scent. Leah sighed with contentment. _Only one thing missing…_

Leah saw Will step into the gallery, a huge bouquet nearly obscuring his face. With a grin, she crossed the room and caught him in a fierce hug. He returned it, lifting her from the ground and swinging her around until she squealed. It was a touch indecorous, but she couldn't care less.

She was laughing. "What was that? Are we in like the third grade, now?"

He chuckled in recognition as he put her down. He looked into her eyes, and Leah wondered when gravity had decided to reverse itself.

"Hey," he breathed, brushing a strand of her hair from her face.

"Hey." Leah grinned even wider.

_Things are going to be OK._

_Will_

The day before Leah's farewell show, they called Will and offered to put him back in the Program.

_Hell of a lot of good that ever did. _Will held the phone as if it were contagious, but he listened. They offered to move him again, even to keep him and Leah together.

The thought had some appeal—they could have gone anywhere. Maybe to France; she could have set up a small gallery, or sold paintings in a courtyard to tourists. He could have played games of chess with old men in the plaza, until he was one of them himself. A simple life, with an untraceable pension from the government paying most of the bills. It would be the least they could do, his contact at the Program had said.

Surprisingly, it was Leah who had said no, for both of them. Will wasn't sure why, but as he looked across the gallery to her small face with its huge smile—she was smiling again, finally—he was glad. They had just found the truth about each other. He didn't want to start the lies all over again, even if she was with him. _Lies might keep you safe, but they blunt the joy in your life. _Sometimes Will startled himself with his own perspicuity.

Will's chest swelled as he watched Leah haggle with a prospective buyer. She was adorable in a serious navy shift dress that contrasted the hilarity in her eyes. The buyer was gray haired and kindly, a local store owner that Will had seen in the town. He joked with Leah, bartering. He finally offered to buy two pieces, one of hers and one of Bradley's, saying they made a nice set. Leah thanked him with sincerity, and Will was relieved to see her face free of pain.

Will was just about to cross to where they stood when his phone rang. He looked at his caller ID and smiled.

"Hey, Syd."

"How did you know it was me?" She asked in girlish innocence. She actually meant it.

Will rolled his eyes and wondered for the umpteenth time how the best agent in the CIA and his sometimes goofy friend could possibly be the same person. "Oh, I have my ways."

"Heh. I see." Syd paused, as if not sure of what to say. _A lot has happened since she last saw me._

"My dad showed me the reports you submitted. I would have called sooner, but he suggested I wait until—until Leah's therapy was finished." Her voice dropped in concern. "Leah—how is she?"

"Much better. She's doing great, in fact. We're having an art show for her, right now. You should see it--she's the toast of Twin Rocks, Oregon. Quite the metropolis. I'd let her talk to you, but she's currently fending off three rabid buyers. I might need to step in before things get out of hand."

Will could hear Syd's smile in her voice. "To protect her, or them?"

"Oh, them, definitely. Leah can take care of herself. She's like the Tasmanian devil. Small, but terrifying," Will laughed.

"So it sounds like." Syd's smile faded. They were silent, each thinking about Irina.

Will was sure that whatever Syd was thinking, it involved guilt. It wasn't the first time Syd had felt responsible for the actions of Irina Derevko. But the last thing Will wanted to hear were her unwarranted apologies.

"Syd, I haven't had any news—how are _you_?"

So Sydney told him everything. That she had finally found out about her missing two years…but that it was classified, so she couldn't share the burden of knowledge.

"That sucks," Will said. He was rewarded with her wry giggle. His talent for understatement was alive and well, he guessed.

She told him about her sister by Irina and Sloane, and Sloane's recent disappearance with Nadia. Will marveled. _Another betrayal. _Irina's list of secrets seemed endless.

She told him of Lauren's duplicity; about Vaughn's devastation when he learned that he couldn't leave her immediately. That he had to pretend not to know—to the point of sleeping with her. Will was speechless. _That's the last time I ever envy him_.

Suddenly, memory seized him.

"Lauren—Vaughn's wife—was Covenant? Wait…was she blonde?" Pieces fell into place. A photo on Vaughn's desk, seen the last time he was in LA while he waited for Syd to leave Marshall's office. Just an ex-journalist's curiosity, at the time. He had wanted to know: what woman was making Syd so unhappy?

"Oh, my god! I saw her picture on Vaughn's desk. I can't _believe_ I didn't remember. Syd, she tried to kill me."

Syd sighed. "I thought as much, when I read your reports. But by the time they came through, I already knew Lauren was a double agent. It was one more thing to hate her for. I don't know what I would have done, if she'd taken you _and_---" Sydney shuddered.

Her voice when she spoke again was bleak. "She's dead, Will. Vaughn and I killed her, two days ago."

"Oh. That's, that's---" He couldn't decide if it were terrible or wonderful.

Her voice quieted to a throaty whisper. "You were right. There's no feeling of closure, of redemption—it's just emptiness. I guess that's what hate does to you. It hollows you out."

Will ached for his friend. He searched for a bright thread in the dark topic.

"What about you and Vaughn? Are you guys OK?"

The question didn't even twist him. His cheek could still feel Leah's hair from when she had hugged him. He had buried his face in it as he held her in joy. It was real—her treatment was finished. _We are both free, now._

Syd's sigh brought him back. "I don't know. I hope so, but this has all been so hard. So strange."

_I couldn't agree more._ "Yeah, I know what you mean. Just when you think it can't get any weirder, it does."

They both chuckled awkwardly. Neither wanted to reopen scabs that had yet to scar over. Will wondered where their easy camaraderie had gone, if the events of the last half-year had stolen it from them.

"Will?" And there it was. The tone in Sydney's voice reached across the miles to touch the part of him that remembered exactly what true friendship felt like. He thought she might say anything.

"I'm glad you are coming back."

"So am I, Syd."

Will seized the moment. "Love you." A smile lit his voice—

—and was returned in her happy tone. "Love you, too, Will."

_Leah_

Leah looked out the window of the plane, lost in thought. Will dozed beside her, his head propped on his Badgers jacket.

She had rejected the offer from the Program.

She'd had enough of painting a world that wasn't real. A world in which Bradley had lived, had loved her enough to fight his illness. A world in which she hadn't been twisted by a merciless woman into a sleeper agent for a country she had never seen. A world in which she and Will could be a normal couple. _That world doesn't exist._

So the CIA had made them a different offer—and they had accepted.

Leah would stick to painting the world the way it was, even if she had to fit her studio time into the too short breaks between briefings, between missions.

The CIA thought she would be a good agent. She got the feeling they felt that her "training" with Irina made her an honorary member of the Derevko-Bristow espionage legacy. Leah thought _that_ excessive praise, but suspected she was ready for this change regardless. She was less dreamy now. Her time with Will had burned her with a new flame, leaving only tempered steel in her soul. She had been distilled to her essence. Her mind was less like a glittering Renoir and more like the efficient, elegant strokes of Asian calligraphy.

The plane landed at LAX, wheels jarring on the hot pavement. Will woke and blinked sleepily.

As she unbuckled her seatbelt and unfolded from the cramped airline seat, Leah felt a surge of ironic acceptance. She found to her surprise that that she even looked forward to fulfilling her potential as an agent. She was quick and smart and never stopped pushing herself. She would welcome the challenges being an agent brought: to learn new accents, to walk new ways, to fight hard and to win.

_I can't wait to see Sydney again._ Leah was sure she was as caring as Will had described—and as talented. _I'll be learning from the best._

Leah hoped that Will would train to be a field agent as well. She knew there was no one she trusted more—she would like to partner with him, eventually. Maybe together they could relish stealing back the Rambaldi brush Sark took from her apartment. _That would be fun._

Leah and Will walked slowly down the jet way. They both only had small backpacks; Will's hand was free to slip into hers as they left the plane. She didn't turn, but she knew his incomparable blue eyes were watching her. She smiled. Her world held few constants, but Leah knew that Will would stay with her through whatever lay ahead. The past few months had seen the fires of danger and pain scorch away their mistrust, leaving behind only their love like a hard, rare gem.

As she emerged from the dark jet way, the airport seemed full of light.

**_Fin_**

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A/N: Well, that's all folks. Please take a sec to let me know what you thought. It will help me make the next story better! Thanks for reading!


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